


Always on the Hunt for a Little More Time

by tothewillofthepeople



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Pining, Pining Enjolras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-02
Updated: 2015-12-02
Packaged: 2018-05-04 14:49:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5338127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tothewillofthepeople/pseuds/tothewillofthepeople
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>If Grantaire ever had the grace to stay still for one moment Enjolras would pin him down and keep him there, just to prove that he can. He doesn’t know what to do with that particular urge.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Grantaire has wanderlust; Enjolras doesn't know what to do with himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Always on the Hunt for a Little More Time

**Author's Note:**

> Someday I'll write a fic that isn't broken up into little scenes.

Enjolras doesn't know about any of it until Grantaire shows up two hours late to a gathering Bahorel's and Combeferre's and everyone jumps up to welcome him with unusual vim and vigor. The dark-haired man is good-natured about immediately receiving an armful of exuberant Joly when he walks in the door. Prouvaire also gets up to hug him, and Bahorel starts swearing at him and finding him a drink. 

Enjolras is sitting on one of the couches with Feuilly; he raises his eyebrows. "Did we think he had died?"

Bossuet, who is sitting on Feuilly’s other side, laughs. "Joly always checks his flights if he knows them, so there's never any fear of that. Just a delay."

"Was he out of town?"

Bossuet gives him an odd look across Feuilly. "You didn't notice? He missed French yesterday."

Enjolras primly tucks one of his legs underneath him. "He's hardly ever in that class anyway."

"Yeah, because he's always traveling." Bossuet still looks puzzled. "Did you think he was just skipping?"

Enjolras shrugs. Grantaire collapses into the couch between Bossuet and Feuilly, cutting the conversation short and declaring, "I got you postcards!"

His hands are full of them, brightly colored and pristine. Each one has messy black handwriting on the back. Bossuet laughs as he accepts his and says: “You couldn’t just send them like a normal person?”

“I didn’t have time to find a post office,” Grantaire says. “It was a quick trip.” He lays a deep blue card in Feuilly’s lap and then reaches over to hand one to Enjolras. “Here you go, Combeferre’s friend. I figured it would be rude not to get you one too.”

Enjolras opens his mouth and then closes it. The postcard picture looks like it was taken on top of a building, looking down onto the busy street. It inspires a faint sense of vertigo.

“I have a name,” Enjolras finally mutters, but when he looks up, Grantaire has vacated the couch and gone to bother Bahorel. Enjolras is left with the postcard and a twisted expression.

Feuilly looks up from reading the back of his own postcard and fixes him with a stern look. “It’s likely that he doesn’t know it,” he points out mildly. He lays the postcard on the coffee table and sinks back into the couch cushions, then pulls the sleeves of his sweater over his fingertips and ignores Enjolras’s indignant expression.

“We have the same French class!”

“And you never talk to anyone other than Courfeyrac, I’ll bet.” Feuilly nudges him with his shoulder. “He’s being nice. What does the back say?”

 _L’appel du vide,_ is all the back says. Enjolras’s expression twists again. “I didn’t realize he was a walking cliché,” he says pointedly. Feuilly starts laughing at him.

*

Grantaire is fluent in French. Enjolras knows this, because he’s heard the other man speak it perfectly in class before now. He’s taking a low-level course for some reason, which irks Enjolras, because it’s difficult to feel that he’s making any progress when the complicated pronunciations roll directly off of Grantaire’s tongue. Feuilly has a point, Enjolras thinks grudgingly: he never has spoken to Grantaire in class. The dark-haired man would only know him through his friendship with Combeferre.

He ends up leaving the room after class at the same time as Grantaire that day and he can’t help but ask, “Why are you taking this class?”

Grantaire turns to look at him with one dark eyebrow preemptively raised. “To learn French?” He has his light green backpack hanging carelessly off one shoulder.

“You know it already.”

“And I don’t want to lose it.” Grantaire’s eyebrow releases its pretentious arch. “The longer I live out of the country the worse my grammar gets.”

Enjolras presses his mouth into a thin line. He doesn’t know how to respond to that, and he doesn’t want Grantaire to know.

The other boy is watching him curiously. “I have to go,” he says, but his eyes still hold a question. “I have biology in ten minutes.” Enjolras still doesn’t say anything. “Have a good day, Enjolras,” Grantaire finally finishes. He turns away and heads for the staircase with his backpack still hanging off the odd angle of his shoulders.

Enjolras watches him go with his hands clenched around his black notebook. He doesn’t want to analyze the fact that Grantaire knows his name today. He thinks about it all through Calculus 

*

“Did Grantaire live in France?”

Joly looks at Enjolras interestedly. He and Combeferre are seated across the table from the blond with their books spread out and overlapping before them, like some terrible maelstrom of medical texts. “Yeah, a couple of times. I’m pretty sure he was born there.”

Enjolras taps his pen on the table. “A couple of times?”

“He’s lived all over, really,” Joly says. One corner of his sharp mouth quirks up. “Why do you ask?”

Combeferre is looking at him now too. Enjolras frowns at both of them and firmly sets down his pen. “He said something about it in passing. I wasn’t aware he had lived there.”

“I didn’t know you and Grantaire talked,” Combeferre says. His bright smile is startling against his dark skin. “I hope you were nice.”

“I was just asking him why he takes our class.”

“Enjolras,” Joly says.

“Oh my god,” Combeferre groans. He pushes his thin glasses up his nose. “I was joking.”

“What?”

“That doesn’t sound very nice,” Joly says primly, before pivoting the conversation. “He takes it so he won’t forget it. He’s fluent in three languages and he wants to learn several more, so it’s not surprising that he clings to the ones he has.”

If Enjolras knew how to swear in French, he would. “Three?”

“English, French, and Japanese,” Combeferre says with another grin. “You should hear him talk in his sleep.”

Enjolras determinedly does not think about Grantaire talking in his sleep. He has more self-control than that.

“Why Japanese?” He asks instead.

“He lived there too.”

Enjolras lets out a frustrated noise.

“He’s lived in France, Japan, and Canada,” Joly explains. “His dad was a UN ambassador, I’m pretty sure, or maybe a translator.”

“Those are two very different jobs,” Combeferre observes.

“And yet. Watch me not give a fuck.” Joly taps his own nose with his forefinger. “Grantaire basically moved all over the place until he was, like, sixteen.” Then he raises his thin eyebrows. “But guess what!”

“What?”

“You could be asking him all of this yourself!” He throws his hands up in genuine celebration; if it were anyone but Joly, Enjolras would consider lobbing his textbook at the other boy’s head.

Combeferre ducks his chin to laugh. Enjolras narrows his eyes and thumbs the edges of his book.

*

“Bahorel invited us over tonight,” Courfeyrac announces as soon as Enjolras gets back to their dorm room. “Apparently there’s a hockey game of great importance. We were told to bring pizza.”

“Really? I was just out with Combeferre and he didn’t mention it.” Enjolras pulls of his coat and shivers. It’s only October but the weather has taken a definite turn for the wintery side of things, and he isn’t sure if he approves.

“He probably doesn’t know.” Courfeyrac tips his chair back. “It’s his house though, he’ll definitely be there.” He tips his head back, too, and wiggles his eyebrows comically at Enjolras.

“Don’t,” Enjolras says.

“I can’t help it!” Courfeyrac lets his chair right itself with a thunk. “He’s so–“

“I’m not kidding.”

“But it’s _Combeferre._ ”

Enjolras swats at his curly-haired roommate. “He’s like a brother to me.”

“He’s like a brother to me too.” Courfeyrac’s grin is wicked. “A brother that I want to do filthy things to. Or have him do filthy things to me.”

“I’m not listening to you anymore.” Enjolras puts his hands over his ears and starts humming _La Marseillaise._ Courfeyrac starts laughing and doesn’t stop until he almost falls out of his chair.

He keeps up his commentary all the way to Combeferre’s that night until they reach the front door, where Enjolras tells him in no uncertain terms that he will tell Combeferre every single dirty thing that Courfeyrac has said if he doesn’t stop.

“Even the thing about–?”

“Even that.”

Courfeyrac stops talking. He still looks a little shell-shocked when the door opens and they’re welcomed inside by a smiling Grantaire. 

Enjolras trips over the doorstep. Courfeyrac starts to smile again.

“Pizza!”

Feuilly waves them over to the couch, where Bahorel is watching TV with frightening intensity. Enjolras sets the box down in front of him and receives a first-hand education on how to eat two slices of pizza in one go without ever looking away from the screen. Enjolras would be impressed if he wasn’t mildly disgusted.

“Do you want anything to drink, Enjolras?” Someone asks. He looks around and sees Prouvaire, a friend of Bahorel’s from his writing seminar, standing in the doorway to the kitchen. Enjolras shakes his head and goes back to the door to toe off his shoes off and take off his coat. Grantaire is still standing there.

“Hello,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire smiles at him. “Hello, Enjolras.”

The banister is smooth under Enjolras’s hand as he grips it for balance while he takes off his shoes. Frowning at Grantaire is too much effort on top of all of that.

“Can I just–?” When Enjolras looks up Grantaire is still smiling, but his expression has taken on a thoughtful tilt. “Why were you late to French today?”

A faint flush spreads across Enjolras’s face as he straightens up. He has to fight to keep a haughty tone from his voice. “I was talking to my English professor. She wanted to– _have words_ with me.”

Grantaire laughs outright at him. Enjolras crosses his arms and scowls. “What do you do?” The dark-haired man asks delightedly.

“I sent her an email about one of our assignments because I thought it was ridiculous,” Enjolras says flatly.

“And how strongly-worded was the email?”

Enjolras lets his raised eyebrows answer the question for him.

“You’re incredible,” Grantaire says with another grin. “I can’t believe you.” He shakes his head in amusement as he moves past Enjolras into the living room. Enjolras frowns down at his feet as he unwinds his scarf from around his neck.

*

Grantaire disappears from class again barely a week later, for several days in a row. When Enjolras finally concedes to asking Bahorel where he’s gone, the taller man laughs at him.

“He’s got an Instagram and a Twitter that he uses when he travels,” he says good-naturedly. “He doesn’t always tell us where he’s going, but he always puts stuff there.” He holds out a hand expectantly.

Enjolras hands him his phone and watches as Bahorel pulls up an Instagram page full of bright pictures. “His username is the same on Twitter,” Bahorel informs him as he hands the phone back.

Enjolras checks. Grantaire’s handle is _@wherethefuckisR,_ which makes him choke with unexpected laughter.

“He’s a damn good photographer,” Bahorel says thoughtfully. “I’d follow him for that alone if I didn’t know him.”

The most recent picture is of San Francisco, for whatever reason. It’s a rather simple one of the Golden Gate Bridge, taken from the shore, but the colors are striking. “Why California?” Enjolras asks, looking up after he presses like on the picture.

Bahorel shrugs at him. “Why not?” When Enjolras frowns he just grins and claps the blond on the shoulder.

Enjolras follows both of Grantaire’s accounts and spends more time looking at both his pictures and his tweets than he will ever admit to anyone. Partway through his exploration he gets a notification that Grantaire has followed him back. He won’t admit to the smile the blooms across his face, either.

*

“Why did you go to California?” Enjolras asks. He’s standing in the middle of the sidewalk with Grantaire. He has ten minutes to get to Angell Hall for his next class, and walking there usually takes him eight minutes, but he wants to hear Grantaire’s answer.

Grantaire’s face is extremely red in the cold. “It’s warm,” he says simply. “And I’m not good at staying in one place for too long.”

“What do you mean?”

Grantaire shrugs and shoves his hands deeper in the pockets of his dark blue jacket. “I moved around a lot as a kid. I have a hard time always staying in the same town.” His expression twists into an odd smile. “I take a certain comfort from falling asleep two thousand miles away from where I woke up.”

*

Enjolras finally throws his pencil down in frustration and demands: “How does he not fail all of his classes?”

Feuilly looks up at him with a bizarre expression. “What?” The sunlight that streams through the library windows is stunning on his red-orange curls, but the backlighting isn’t enough to obscure his narrowed eyes.

“Grantaire!” Enjolras crosses his arms and leans back in his seat. “There are attendance requirements, and, and homework, and he just keeps jaunting off to god knows where–“

“What brought this on?” Bossuet asks interestedly. He keeps his eyes on Enjolras as he absentmindedly closes his book without marking the page.

“He’s just– he’s always gone.” Enjolras mutters.

Feuilly laughs at him. Bossuet continues to watch him as though he’s a particularly interesting exhibit at a zoo.

“And– how does he even pay for all of it?”

“I never thought I would see this day,” Bossuet says with relish. Enjolras all but snarls at him.

“He has a job,” Feuilly says to placate him. “And he always tells his professors when he’s leaving. They’re generally pretty okay with waiving the attendance rules for him.”

Enjolras watches the play of sunlight over his fingers as he taps them on the table. “I’ve never even left the country,” he says quietly.

Bossuet and Feuilly share an expression of surprise. “Enjolras, are you _jealous?_ ” Feuilly asks incredulously.

“Of course not!”

*

It snows nonstop for the next week, which keeps Enjolras locked in his dorm room for most of the day. He finally emerges to meet Combeferre for a study session at his house; he isn’t home when Enjolras arrives, red-faced and freezing, but Bahorel and Prouvaire invite the blond inside and make him hot chocolate in an attempt to placate him. “How are your classes going?” Prouvaire asks kindly. His fine dark hair is pulled back into a braid today.

Enjolras’s socks are soaking wet; he grimaces as he peels them off his feet. “They’re all fine. Yours?”

Prouvaire’s shrugs. “I like my poetry classes,” he says, “but no one there speaks Japanese.” He sighs. “Grantaire is the only one who can actually read my haikus.” 

Enjolras accepts his mug of hot chocolate from Bahorel and drinks deeply. “That’s too bad,” he finally says. He’s lost all of his words. Combeferre falls through the front door barely a moment later; he swears loudly as he slams the door behind him and starts brushing snow out of his thick hair. Bahorel and Prouvaire both jump up to make him more hot chocolate while Enjolras permits himself to laugh at Combeferre’s dark complexion, which is highlighted by the snowflakes caught in his black eyelashes.

*

Enjolras goes home for Christmas. Grantaire goes to Paris. His tweets devolve into a mess of French that Enjolras absentmindedly translates while he hides from his parents on Christmas day.

A postcard arrives in the mail for Enjolras shortly thereafter. It’s a generic picture of the Louvre; on the back Grantaire has written some nonsense in French about his favorite works of art. Enjolras puts it with his postcard from New York City, which is tucked inside the cover of his French textbook. He isn’t thinking about it.

He is jealous, and that’s the worst bit. He can’t stop caring about his schooling. Leaving in the middle of the week would send him into a panic about missing assignments and less-than-perfect attendance. He’s a butterfly pinned beneath glass; Grantaire is one that’s permitted to fly free.

Grantaire’s return journey is documented by a series of pictures from the window of his plane. He captions the last one: _i’m trying to outfly nightfall._

*

Courfeyrac is pinning the Christmas postcard he got from Grantaire above his desk when Enjolras gets back to the dorm room after the break. He has several already mounted there. Enjolras thinks about the two postcards he has and ignores Courfeyrac’s suggestion that he should hang them up as well.

There’s a certain melancholy about the thought of Grantaire buying postcards by himself in a small corner of whatever city he’s gracing with his presence. Enjolras imagines that it must be exhausting sometimes, that his only escape is to fling himself as far from home as he can. But Grantaire always smiles easier when he returns.

*

“You,” Grantaire shouts over the music, “are a very confusing person.” He has to duck down to put his mouth directly by Enjolras’s ear, and Enjolras instinctively grips his shoulder to steady him.

“What do you mean?” He shouts back. It’s noisy where they are, and everyone around them is dancing, but Grantaire has pulled him into a small space of calm in the center of the storm.

Going out to a club to celebrate coming back to school had been Courfeyrac’s idea; going to a club that was hosting Pride Night had been Prouvaire’s idea; drinking, apparently, had been everyone’s idea but Enjolras’s. Grantaire is just buzzed enough that his words are dragged down by an unidentifiable accent when he speaks. He’s smiling and exuberant after Paris, as though breathing in the city has brought some aspect of his complex personality back to life.

“You’re so– severe.” Grantaire puts both of his hands on Enjolras’s narrow hips to demonstrate by trying to make him sway to the music. His hands are a kaleidoscope of colors under the lights. Enjolras wonders if he dances like this when he’s travelling, if he puts his hands on anyone else like this. The dark-haired man is still talking. “And you ask so many questions.”

Enjolras stands firm. His head feels warm and his hands feel restless. “Would you like me to stop?”

“No!” Grantaire’s eyes are wide and impossible to read in the flickering lights of the club. But his mouth is quick to melt back into one of his easy smiles. “I like it.”

He lets go of Enjolras to run his hands through his hair and tip his chin back while he mouths along with the lyrics to the pounding music. The long line of his bared throat is obscene; the play of lights across his jaw is just unfair. Enjolras watches him pointedly for several long moments before he slips away to find Courfeyrac. He doesn’t like to dance, and he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t think that Grantaire notices him leave.

*

At two in the morning in the middle of January, Enjolras says to Courfeyrac, “I wish I didn’t feel tied down. I wish I could do what Grantaire does.”

Courfeyrac, half-asleep, rolls over in bed and says, “You could. Part of Grantaire’s charm is that he isn’t allowed to leave so much, and he does it anyway.”

*

Grantaire doesn’t seem to use his Twitter or his Instagram when he isn’t travelling, but he has a ridiculous amount of followers on both. A truly ridiculous amount. Enjolras can understand the appeal of his photographs, but his Tweets are rambling and often poke fun at local customs of wherever he is, and they jump between his three mother tongues with dizzying frequency.

Enjolras’s favorite photograph is one that, according to the caption, was taken by Grantaire’s father. In it, Grantaire is seated with his back to the camera, looking towards a ruined monument of white stone columns. His hair is wild and tousled and his shoulders are arched up.

Enjolras favorite tweet is one that simply reads: _there is nothing i love more than this._ There is no context, no location, but it makes Enjolras smile when he thinks about where Grantaire could have been.

*

Grantaire puts on New York City again in February as though it's a winter coat. Classes are cancelled on a Thursday morning due to snow and he takes the opportunity to skip town as soon as he wakes up, with apologetic emails sent to every professor whose classes he misses on Friday.

His Instagram is full of pictures of the city blanketed in oppressive snow; on Twitter he makes a joke about dodging the ice that falls off skyscrapers. Enjolras favorites the pictures and the tweet with a small frown on his face.

Grantaire is back late Sunday night. He makes no secret of how tired he is in class on Monday morning. His eyes look particularly dark. Enjolras watches him for so long that he doesn’t know what to do with his own hands.

If Grantaire ever had the grace to stay still for one moment Enjolras would pin him down and keep him there, just to prove that he can. He doesn’t know what to do with that particular urge.

Combeferre texts him that afternoon, briefly, to see if he wants to get dinner together. Enjolras responds in the affirmative, even though it’s snowing outside, and dinner with Combeferre will inevitably mean a walk across campus to their favorite restaurant on Liberty Street. When he finishes his writing for French he wraps himself up in his warmest clothes and powers through the weather to the house that Combeferre, Bahorel, and Grantaire share.

Snow is melting in Enjolras’s fine blond hair when he pushes his way through the front door of the house. He shakes his head in irritation and starts to pull off his black pea coat. “Combeferre?”

“Enjolras?”

Grantaire appears in the doorway to the kitchen. He’s wearing a loose, dark gray sweater with the sleeves rolled up. It’s a good look. Enjolras frowns and starts unwinding his scarf from around his pale throat. “Is Combeferre here?”

“I think he’s upstairs.” Grantaire’s eyes never move away from him. “You have snow in your hair.”

“It’s snowing out.” Enjolras closes his eyes as soon as the words leave his mouth and grimaces. He doesn’t need to be looking to know that Grantaire’s expression has twisted up into an amused smile.

Thankfully, Grantaire doesn’t comment. “You must be freezing,” is all he says, and he strolls across the living room space to stand next to Enjolras as the blond struggles to take his boots off. “I have another postcard for you, by the way.” Enjolras stills for a moment, and then keeps moving when Grantaire picks his scarf up off the ground and hangs it over the banister. He turns around to face Enjolras again.

Enjolras is nothing if not calculating. When he straightens up he takes two steps forward, directly into Grantaire's space, and waits.

Their noses are almost brushing. Grantaire's eyes are half-lidded and his red mouth has gone slack; Enjolras doesn't move. He keeps his expression open as he stays still and breathes into the scant inches of hesitant air between their lips.

Grantaire swallows even as he tilts his chin in line with Enjolras’s. "This is okay?" He asks quietly.

Enjolras nods.

Grantaire ducks his head and puts one hand on the back of Enjolras's pale neck to ease him into the kiss.

They move slowly and softly. Enjolras hums slightly as he tilts his head and opens his mouth under Grantaire's so the dark-haired man can lick past the line of his teeth. Grantaire's hand slides up into the short hair at the base of Enjolras's neck; his other hand settles low on Enjolras's back. Enjolras presses his fingers into Grantaire's chest and sways forward into the intoxicating movement of his lips.

Grantaire burns against him in contrast to the chill outside.

Enjolras tries to keep his open mouth as sweet as he can. It's easy for Grantaire to gently dance him backwards until Enjolras's sharp shoulder blades meet the door. Enjolras lets himself be pressed against it and moves his hands to tug Grantaire closer until the artist is all but holding him up against the wood as his mouth works obscenities against Enjolras's.

Grantaire is very close; he’s surrounding Enjolras, with his hands cradling the blond’s head to kiss him more thoroughly. Enjolras can’t help but make small, contented noises that are lost immediately in his throat. His fingers are holding tight to Grantaire's collarbones.

They move so slowly. Enjolras wants to drag Grantaire down into him and stay there forever, biting out Grantaire’s name, letting the dark-haired man pull him to pieces with his teeth. He drags his hands torturously down Grantaire’s front and catches the hem of the soft gray sweater between his fingers.

“Enjolras?”

Combeferre’s footsteps on the stairs are louder than Enjolras wants them to be, and he ducks his head away from Grantaire immediately to respond. “Are you ready to go?” He takes his hands off of Grantaire’s wretched hipbones.

Grantaire takes a step back just as Combeferre appears on the landing. “I just need my boots, I think. Has it stopped snowing?”

Enjolras swallows. He looks up at Combeferre instead of Grantaire. “No.”

“Awful. Let’s go, then.”

Grantaire turns around and walks back into the kitchen.

“Okay,” Enjolras says.

*

Grantaire skips every single class the next day, with no warning.

Enjolras doesn’t ask any of his friends if they know where he went. He bites his lip more often than usual and doesn’t think about it. If Grantaire doesn’t want to see him he doesn’t have to. And Enjolras certainly isn’t important enough to keep the other boy from running away again.

*

On Wednesday evening there is a knock on Enjolras’s and Courfeyrac’s door. Enjolras hops up to open it because Courfeyrac has his headphones on; when he opens the door he sees Grantaire, who is standing with his hands in his pockets and his head tipped to one side. His hair is wild around his temples. Enjolras wants to sink his fingers into it. He also wants to slam the door.

“Hello,” he says automatically.

“Hi,” Grantaire says back.

Enjolras leans against the doorway. “Where did you go this time?” He asks. His voice is harder than he wants it to be. “Milan? Tokyo?”

Grantaire shakes his head. “Just– home.” He smiles slightly. “Sort of. I went to see my dad for a bit.”

Enjolras feels awful in his own skin. He crosses his arms. “Why?”

“Because I didn’t want to be here if you weren’t talking to me,” Grantaire says quietly. His gaze is hard and honest. “But I didn’t want to leave, because you are here.”

The words are equally honest and that makes Enjolras step out into the hallway and close the door behind him. His face feels warm. He isn’t sure how breathing works anymore. “Why did you think I wasn’t talking to you?” He stalls.

Grantaire’s arrogant eyebrows go up in tandem. “As soon as Combeferre showed up you bolted. I assumed you didn’t want to talk about it,” he points out. His mouth twists down. “But that kind of sucks for you because I can’t hide out at my dad’s forever, so you’re going to have to tell me what that was all about.”

Enjolras crosses his arms again and shifts his weight from foot to foot. He has to keep his arms crossed so his traitorous hands won’t betray him in any way. “I don’t know what you want me to say.” He keeps his voice as level as he can. 

There isn’t any surprise in Grantaire’s expression as he considers that. “Why did you kiss me?”

“Because I wanted to.” The words fall out of Enjolras’s mouth before he can stop them, and he closes his eyes. Grantaire has a talent for pulling words directly out of his mouth, however little he’d like them to be said. When he opens his eyes again, Grantaire is still standing there. He has his hands shoved into his pockets and a frown on his face.

“Enjolras,” he says slowly. Enjolras blinks at the sound of his name in the other boy’s mouth; Grantaire seems to savor it. “I haven’t been gone nearly as much this year as I was last year, and it’s all your fault.” His smile is quick and cynical. “But say the word and I’ll be halfway around the world by the time you fall asleep.”

“Don’t,” Enjolras says before he can stop himself. He drops his empty hands to his sides and balls them into fists. “I left with Combeferre because I didn’t know what to say to you. And I still don’t. And I think you’re arrogant and I can’t believe you get away with missing class as often as you do but I think you should stay here.” He falls silent for one moment, hesitating. “I don’t want to be the thing that pins you to one place.”

“Nothing is ever going to make me stop hopping all over the world when I get the urge,” Grantaire says with his head tipped to the side again. His eyes are bright. “I’m restless and I’m going to be awful. But I would like to have someone to come home to. Or you could just come with me. Kiss me?”

“You arrogant bastard,” Enjolras snaps, and it’s all he gets out before Grantaire steps forward to meet his open hands and has him pressed up against the door. Though his movements are quick the kiss he drops on Enjolras’s mouth is soft and sweet, and Enjolras reels after it when the dark-haired man moves away.

“This is okay?” Grantaire checks again. His voice is low; Enjolras doesn’t open his eyes when he nods his assent. He wants to be kissed again.

Grantaire’s mouth is very soft and very warm. Enjolras presses his hands against the taller man’s chest and goes up on his tiptoes for an angle that makes Grantaire gasp into his mouth. Grantaire’s hands are gentle on his jaw and against his throat, but he presses Enjolras insistently back against the wooden door to kiss him harder.

After a moment they break apart to breathe in ragged tandem. Grantaire starts to laugh, and Enjolras does too; through the door behind them, Courfeyrac has begun loudly singing _La Marseillaise._

**Author's Note:**

> Something small that appeared while I was working on the sequel for Witchboy. My tag for this story is [here!](http://kvothes.tumblr.com/tagged/where_the_fuck_is_R) [This post](http://kvothes.tumblr.com/post/106871190745/orestesfasting-thelibrarina-enjorlas) in particular was a big inspiration.
> 
> On tumblr I am [kvothes.](http://kvothes.tumblr.com/tagged/x) I also having a writing inspiration sideblog at [sweetprincet.](http://sweetprincet.tumblr.com/tagged/x)


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